Mr. Gore was still munching when there was heard a light, assured tapping on the glass of the corridor door; two fingernails rotated. Wilfred’s breast burned and his lip curled painfully as he went to open the door. They all knew who this was. Dobereiner turned a foolish, beaming smile towards the door; and Mr. Gore looked over the top of his desk with all the sullenness gone out of his face. Wilfred opened the door; and Joe Kaplan breezed past him. “‘Lo, Wilfred! . . . ’Lo, Mr. Dobereiner. . . . Good morning, Mr. Gore.” He got no answering greeting from Wilfred; but a fat lot Joe cared for that. That was the worst of it; filled with a fervor of indignation, Wilfred had not the power to make Joe feel it. Why? He knew. It was because his indignation was insincere. The sight of the glittering Joe made him sick with envy. He was crushed by the hatefulness of his own feelings. Wilfred scanned him in the effort to discover something . . . something that would enable him to feel superior. But Joe was too perfect; he was too exactly what Wilfred himself dreamed of becoming; the gay, gilded, insouciant youth. Insouciant was one of Wilfred’s favorite words. To be sure, Joe was a little _too_ well-dressed to be a gentleman; but there was nothing blatant about him; he picked things up too quickly. And everybody was ready to forgive a slightly dandified air in so good-looking a youth. Wilfred, while he sneered at the beautifully-fitting dark green suit with a small check, the puffy Ascot tie with a handsome pearl in it, the Dunlap derby fresh from the burnisher’s iron, secretly admired. Somehow Wilfred’s effects never came off. Though they were of the same age, the finish Joe had acquired made him look three or four years older. Wilfred was miserably aware of being an untidy and gangly eighteen. Joe plumped himself down like an equal in a chair at Mr. Gore’s left hand; and their heads drew close together. Whisper; whisper; whisper; punctuated with chuckles. Joe was visible at the side of the desk; but Mr. Gore Wilfred could not see; however, he knew only too well how the man’s face relaxed; how his sulky eyes became moist and irresponsible; and how the thick lips parted. Almost anybody except the fatuous Dobereiner could have told at a glance what was the relation between those two. Wilfred had no difficulty in reading his employer; a sensual man, weak and shy. It was Joe’s perfect shamelessness which had won him. It was the same with everybody. The satyr in Joe’s hard, bright, close-set eyes encouraged the imprisoned appetites to come out and stretch themselves. Had not Wilfred felt it himself? Only he could not let himself go. He did not blame Mr. Gore; there was something warm and human in the man’s surrender. He was getting something that his nature craved. But Joe! while he smiled and murmured and debauched others, _his_ eyes remained cold and bright and watchful. What a horror!